Elder Zhang's face contorted with barely restrained fury, his weathered features darkening by the moment. That Qin Ting, a mere youth, could stand before him with such brazen disregard for his authority was unthinkable—absurd, even. As the Elder tasked with upholding the Xuantian Sect's sacred laws, the notion gnawed at his pride like a ravenous beast.
As overseer of discipline, Elder Zhang had long wielded his position like a sharpened blade, quelling dissent with an iron grip. His arrogance, no secret, cloaked him like a heavy mantle, cowing disciples into silence and giving even Outer Court Elders pause.
Few dared challenge his decrees, let alone mock him. Yet now, soft snickers rippled through the gathered crowd, and his ears burned with the sound. Disciples and elders alike hid their amusement behind cupped hands or fleeting glances, relishing the rare spectacle of his humiliation.
'They dare laugh at me?' Elder Zhang's thoughts seethed, sharp and bitter as he clenched his fists beneath his flowing sleeves. 'These fools will regret it when I reassert my dominance.' His gaze snapped to Qin Ting, the source of his disgrace, and his resentment blazed hotter.
Qin Ting's lineage was no small matter. His father, Emperor Qin, loomed as a colossus in the Illusory God Realm—a cultivator whose name alone could silence a crowded hall, his presence a storm cloud on the horizon. Within the Xuantian Sect's intricate hierarchy, few could claim such prestige.
Yet Qin Ting had not merely inherited that brilliance; he had surpassed it.
At eighteen, he had ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm, a feat so extraordinary it nearly secured him the coveted title of Holy Son. The role seemed destined, a golden crown awaiting its bearer.
Elder Zhang's thoughts drifted to Song Changge—a cautionary tale that haunted him. Once a prodigy whose potential burned brightly, Song Changge had dared challenge Qin Ting for the Holy Son's mantle. His ambition had flared fiercely—until it was extinguished.
Qin Ting's victory was merciless, leaving Song Changge's Dao Foundation in ruins, his spirit a hollow shell, his once-vibrant essence a faint whisper. For a cultivator of his caliber, such a fate cut deeper than death.
Elder Zhang's jaw tightened, the memory a bitter shard in his chest. He had miscalculated, aligning against Qin Ting in this power struggle. But the die was cast, the path chosen. To retreat now was to court ruin.
'If I waver, what fate awaits me when he claims the Holy Son's throne?' The question coiled in his mind like a cold serpent. He had already revealed his duplicity, siding with Qin Ting's foes in a fleeting bid for influence. To switch sides again would shred his honor, leaving him a laughingstock among the sect's elders.
Retreat was no option. His only path lay forward—through deception and cunning. He would drag Qin Ting before the Law Enforcement Court, weaving a web of lies to ensnare the young genius and halt his ascent before it grew unstoppable.
'If Emperor Qin emerges from seclusion before I succeed, I'm as good as dead,' he thought, a chill tracing his spine. A bead of sweat slid down his brow, defying the crisp air. Time pressed relentlessly, and Qin Ting stood as an immovable obstacle. Failure meant annihilation.
Elder Zhang's jaw clenched as he ground his teeth, his voice erupting in a furious growl. "Gravely wounding a fellow disciple defies mortal and divine law! Qin Ting, you will follow me and face your punishment!" With those words, he thrust his hand forward, his palm slicing through the air toward Qin Ting with fierce intent.
As his hand moved, it transformed, swelling into a colossal deity's palm that loomed over the scene, dwarfing all in its shadow. Intricate Dao runes shimmered around it like threads of ancient magic, their power straining the very fabric of space around Qin Ting, threatening to unravel it.
Elder Zhang's confidence drew from experience. Qin Ting had only recently reached the Divine Spirit Realm, his grasp of the immortal Dao still unpolished. In their prior clash, the elder had underestimated him, using only a fraction of his strength—enough to be caught off guard by Qin Ting's raw power. But now, with his full might unleashed, he was certain subduing the youth would be effortless.
Yet Qin Ting stood unfazed, his lips curling into a cold sneer as the elder's strike descended. 'This old fool's been scheming against me from the shadows for too long,' he thought. 'And now it's clear—he's allied with that pretentious Senior Brother Jiang.' A flicker of disdain crossed his mind. 'Since I've already crippled one True Disciple, what's one more broken elder?'
His face remained calm, though his eyes glinted with derision. Stepping forward deliberately, Qin Ting summoned his power. A vibrant purple aura surged from him, its force expanding his presence to dominate the space. Jagged stones and splintered earth from the Battle Stage's crater rose around him, caught in the violent tempest of his power, whipping outward like weapons of fury.
With a fluid, lightning-swift motion, Qin Ting's hand shot out, intercepting Elder Zhang's descending palm. The clash echoed through the void—a cataclysmic boom that unleashed wild tendrils of thunder and spiritual energy in a dazzling frenzy. The Battle Stage shuddered, its fractured surface splintering into a jagged maze of glowing fissures.
Qin Ting's energy surged, a wild tempest coursing through his meridians. He channeled it into a single, devastating punch—a colossal fist that tore through the air with such ferocity it seemed to bend reality. The strike's speed ignited the atmosphere, sparking a cascade of purple flashes that crackled like jagged lightning, each a testament to its force.
This was no ordinary technique. It was one of the three sacred forms of the Divine Raging Thunder Secret Technique, a celestial art passed down through the Qin Family and perfected by Emperor Qin. In Qin Ting's hands, it transcended its origins, its might amplified into something divine—a power that redefined possibility.
With each pulse of the blow, the air thundered, the sound rolling through the arena like an unchained storm. The booming echoes carried celestial wrath, as if the skies had parted to pronounce judgment. The ground quaked, and the air shivered in reverence before the unrelenting fury of his strike.
To the onlookers—disciples frozen in awe, elders clutching their robes, rivals paling in the shadows—it was no mere attack. It was a spectacle of nature's fury, a tidal wave of destruction poised to sweep away all in its path.
'Can such power even be contained?' one spectator wondered, their breath caught.
Qin Ting stood at the heart of the chaos, his silhouette framed by flickering violet light, serene yet unstoppable. Emperor Qin's legacy pulsed within him, but it was his own brilliance that set the world ablaze.
Elder Zhang's massive Dao hand shattered under the onslaught, dissolving into wisps of nothingness. Yet the punch's momentum roared onward, now hurtling toward Elder Zhang.
Elder Zhang's expression twisted in shock, his weathered face paling as an overwhelming pressure bore down. 'This power… it's suffocating! One hit, and I'll be ash!' His heart raced, dread sinking into his bones.
But at the last moment, the fist veered sharply, its trajectory shifting with uncanny precision to lock onto Elder Zhang again—a testament to Qin Ting's supernatural control, belying his supposed inexperience. This was no mere talent; it was the chasm between a heaven-sent genius and a groveling insect.
"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Elder Zhang bellowed, his voice thick with defiance. "I am a late-stage immortal of the Divine Spirit Realm—a power you cannot fathom!" His presence swelled, an imposing aura radiating like a storm. The air shimmered as intricate patterns wove together, glowing ethereally.
They solidified into a towering green cauldron, its surface pulsing with ancient energy—a fortress of divine protection.
From the sidelines, an elder gasped, voice trembling. "The Primeval Cauldron! Elder Zhang's ultimate safeguard!"
The Primeval Cauldron was no ordinary technique. This legendary defensive art required invoking a Divine Spirit, marking it as one of Elder Zhang's most renowned signatures. Time and again, its shimmering walls had saved him from death's grasp.
'To think this whelp, Qin Ting, has driven me to such depths!' The thought seared his pride, a bitter ember glowing hotter as he stood within the cauldron's luminous embrace. Its radiant glow pulsed, casting jagged shadows across the scarred earth—a defiant bastion against the storm he refused to acknowledge.
Then came a blinding flash, splitting the world asunder. A deafening roar followed, shaking the onlookers' bones. The cauldron buckled under an incomprehensible force, its verdant shell fracturing into a cascade of fragments. Each shard glimmered briefly, twisting into delicate Dao patterns before dissolving into wisps of smoke, swallowed by the wind.
Elder Zhang stood no chance against the tide that followed. A colossal surge of power slammed into him, raw and unstoppable, as though the heavens had unleashed their wrath. His body recoiled, flung back like a leaf in a gale, a metallic tang flooding his mouth.
The acrid stench of scorched flesh mingled with the crowd's horrified gasps. Blood sprayed from his lips, painting the air as he crashed into the ground, his once-proud form crumpling into a mangled heap of charred skin, blood-soaked robes, and shattered dignity.
His wide eyes, clouded with shock and denial, trembled as they fixed on Qin Ting. 'How could this be?' he thought, the words quaking in his mind. Not one of his techniques had touched the youth. Worse, he had been dismantled—torn apart like a child's broken toy. Pain radiated through his ruined body, but the sting of humiliation cut deeper.
Across the battlefield, Qin Ting stood untouched, a figure of serenity amid the chaos. His pristine robes rippled gently, unmarred by dust or blood. Not a strand of his dark hair stirred. To him, this annihilation was a passing whim, a casual flick of his wrist.
The onlookers stood mute, breaths caught. Qin Ting had delivered relentless astonishment today. First, he crushed Song Changge with ruthless precision. Then, he unveiled his mastery of the immortal arts, leaving seasoned practitioners in awe. Now, with a single strike, he had felled Elder Zhang—the formidable Elder of Discipline—reducing him to a broken figure sprawled across the stage.
Elder Zhang was no ordinary foe. For nearly a century, he had honed his craft in the Divine Spirit Realm, his command of the divine arts formidable. Even newly ascended Divine Platform Realm cultivators found themselves outmatched. Yet here he lay, defeated before mounting a counterattack, his preemptive strike futile against Qin Ting's overwhelming might.
The crowd's perception wavered. They had long seen Qin Ting as a prodigy, the unrivaled pride of Xuantian Sect's younger generation. But this was beyond talent—it was monstrous, a brilliance defying comprehension. As their gazes settled on Elder Zhang's crumpled form, a surreal haze enveloped them, as though they had glimpsed something beyond the mortal plane.
Among the elders, the older ones furrowed their brows, sifting through memories of a bygone era. Even Emperor Qin, in his legendary youth, had not wielded such dominance.
A grizzled elder murmured, voice barely a whisper, "This Qin Ting… what manner of being is he? Who could hope to rival him?" His words hung unanswered, the weight of Qin Ting's aura pressing down.
With a subtle shift, Qin Ting drew his power back, like a tide retreating from the shore. The artificial night of swirling shadows and crackling energy dissolved. Tendrils of smoke and debris drifted away on a gentle breeze, and sunlight pierced the haze, bathing the scene in midday's glow.
In moments, the chaos vanished, and Qin Ting stood serene, his aura so perfectly veiled that none could believe he had unleashed such devastation mere seconds before.